The Long and Winding Road

The Big Breakup...

2008-04-25T15:02:00.000-07:00

...between me and Blogger, has taken place.

You can now find The Long and Winding Road at www.erinslongandwindingroad.wordpress.com/.

I Think Hell Just Froze Over...

2008-04-22T07:05:00.000-07:00

I remember reading a quote from Jennifer Aniston once where she said that she can't wait to get up in the morning, every morning. This was something I could never come close to relating to, much less understand. Yet, at 5:30 this morning, I was wide awake, waiting until I could get out of bed. What?! Yes. Waiting. For no particular reason. Just felt like getting up and getting at the day.

So. Weird. I don't know that I've ever -- ever -- felt like that before in my life. Mornings for me = dread. They hurt. A whole lot.

But today didn't. At all. And so, I headed to the pool. A 300, then 8x100, and then 2x300 all knocked off before 7:15 this morning. Not fast, but steady. Respectable. And this after a 1-hour personal training session last night that kicked my ass and left me wondering how I was going to make it through the 4-mile run I had afterwards (I did, although it wasn't pretty).

Whether it's a wrinkle in the time-space continuum or some other weirdness in the universe, I kind of hope it keeps happening. If this is what it feels like to be a morning person, I could definitely get on board.

Shout Outs

2008-04-20T11:55:00.000-07:00

First, to "Bad-ass McCue" for capping an unbelievably long journey to IM-AZ with a sub-15-hour finish in a race that had the third-highest DNF rate in IM history. But also, for writing this amazing summary of what it means and how it feels to complete an Ironman. (http://projectprocrastination.blogspot.com/2008/04/best-day.html -- sorry, hyperlinks apparently out of order at the moment).

Second, huge congrats to my running partner, Krista (http://thekbb.wordpress.com/2008/04/12/peanut-butter/), who posted a 1:48 in her first half marathon of the season last weekend...in the sleet and rain and snow, all in one race. That's toughness. :: Bowing down in reverence ::

And all the luck in the world to an old friend from high school, Scott (http://www.scottbeaulier.com/Personal.html, and Amy Hausworth, running The Boston tomorrow. In the words of a zealous person on the sidelines of last year's Green Bay Cellcom Marathon, "Run like you stole something!"

Sending good thoughts your way all morning tomorrow...

Not What I Expected from AQHA

2008-04-16T12:13:00.000-07:00

So, there's a good chance this post is only of interest to me, but the topic has me so fired up that I can't help but blog about it. Be forewarned, though...this is a long one.

Last week, Deebs contacted me about a bill she was working on on behalf of a client -- the American Horse Slaughter Prevention Act (H.R.503/S.311). Basically, the bill will end the slaughter of horses and any domestic or international transport of live horses for human consumption.

"Who would be against this bill?" she asked.

I was curious, too. Who indeed? After all, the slaughtering of horses has all but been halted in the U.S. -- and if there was enough push to do that, why would anyone oppose this bill, which mainly prevents us from shipping horses to Canada or Mexico to be killed? (And often killed viscously: in Mexico, horses are often repeatedly stabbed in the spine to incapacitate them before they are hung up by a back leg and their throats are slit. Even in the instance where a bolt gun is used, it is not designed to kill the horse, only “stun” them. They are alive while “bled out” and some will remain conscious during later stages of slaughter, suffocating with their noses in a pool of blood.)

After doing a bit of research, I found out that one group that has actively lobbied against passage of this bill was none other than the American Quarter Horse Association -- an association that I've belonged to since I was eleven, and one that my family has poured a lot of money into through show fees, membership fees, magazine subscriptions, etc.

To say that I was shocked would be a gross understatement. But I work in politAelZ I live in a politically-charged city. I know that no issue is ever as cut-and-dried as it seems at first glance. And so, I figured that the AQHA must have good reasons for its position. And I set out to find out what those reasons were.

What I found was that the AQHA had reasons, but they weren't good by any means. Here's what its executive committee said in a letter detailing its position:

One of the major issues in the slaughter debate centers around personal property rights. AQHA believes that allowing animal-rights advocates to determine how we manage our horses opens the door to letting them put other limits on what we can or cannot do with our horses...AQHA respects the right of horse owners to manage their personal property as they choose, so long as the welfare of the American Quarter Horse is paramount to all other concerns.

Economics also comes into play. Other options for dealing with unwanted horses can be costly, and the last thing anyone would want to risk is having a horse neglected or abused because an owner might not have all the options available to him or her.

Each year in this country, between 4 and 6 million dogs and cats are euthanized at animal shelters. These shelters benefit from widespread public support and are funded by taxpayer dollars. If processing were not an option for unwanted horses, imagine finding homes for 100,000 horses each year or building an equine welfare system supported by taxpayers.

The first line of reasoning is obviously asinine. I don't think anyone is going to make a logical, honest-to-goodness, slippery-slope correlation between slaughtering horses and trail riding anytime soon. To be fair, when the House Appropriations Committee initially approved the funding bill for the U.S. Department of Agriculture for Fiscal Year 2008, the language in the bill was so broadly-written that it would have had a far broader impact than it seemed intended to have. But, common sense prevailed and this provision has long-since been removed.

The second line of reasoning -- that we would have to find homes for 100,000 horses a year that would otherwise be sent to slaughter -- seems reasonable at first, but appears to fall apart when deconstructed.

First off, consider this: between 1989 and 2004, when the number of slaughtered horses dropped by more than 270,000, there was no correlative spike in neglect or abuse of horses, and there was no outcry from the equine industry that more than 270,000 horses were left without homes (as AQHA says would happen now). In addition, it should be noted that that of the horses killed in U.S. slaughter plants in 2006, nearly four percent were imported from Canada. And in 2005, more than seven percent of the total horses slaughtered in U.S. plants were imported live from Canada.

It’s also estimated that more than 30,000 horses are stolen each year and then auctioned for slaughter -- further decreasing the number of horses who would otherwise need to find homes, because if slaughter is outlawed, there is suddenly no market for these horses.

Opponents to the Slaughter Prevention Act also site slaughter as an acceptable alternative for people who can't afford to put their horses down through euthanasia and pay for disposal. This makes my blood boil. The cost to euthanize and dispose of a horse is usually less than what it costs to house and feed a horse for a month. But I digress. There's a glitch in this reasoning, too. Killer-buyers -- the agents who scope out horse auctions on behalf of slaughterhouses -- don't buy up sickly, unusable horses that would otherwise need to be disposed of. On the contrary, a U.S. Department of Agriculture study found that more than 92 percent of horses at slaughterhouses are in “good” condition, and according to a study conducted by temple Grandin, an animal slaughter expert, 70 percent of all horses at the slaughter plants were in good, fat, or obese condition and 84 percent were of average age. Additionally, 96 percent had no behavioral issues whatsoever.

These horses need to be able to survive anywhere from 24 to 36 hours of horrible transport in hot, close quarters, usually with no food, water, or rest stops. And, killer-buyers get paid by the pound for the animals they bring in, so the more robust and healthy the horse is, the more likely it is that it will survive the trip, and fetch the killer-buyer a small profit. Not surprisingly, the majority of horses sent to slaughter are Quarter Horses -- nearly 80 percent -- because of their hearty build and because, as some critics have pointed out, the AQHA has no retirement program for its registered horses like some other organizations do. As one can imagine, most people who send their horses to auction don't realize they could easily end up in a slaughterhouse, and even worse, many killer-buyers actually outbid average Joes looking to buy a trail horse or horse for the family.

In the research I've done on this issue thus far, I have not found one shred of statistical information to support AQHA's claims that ending horse slaughter will give rise to neglect and abuse. AQHA sent me this white paper in response to my email to them...but in reading the footnotes, I was disheartened to find that the majority of evidence presented is anecdotal (unlike this study), and in addition, the white paper cites articles that have long since been discredited (here, here, here, and here).

To be fair, there seems to be anecdotal evidence that Illinois now has a problem with unwanted horses. But the real question, I think, is what effect the economic slowdown of late has had on the “unwanted horse” population. Methinks that might be more of a factor than a reduction in the number of horses slaughtered. How else to explain that when the DeKalb, Illinois slaughterhouse burned down in 2002, horse abandonment and abuse cases actually dropped?

But AQHA is apparently not one to let facts like this get in its way. In its position letter, AQHA also states that

If you agree with AQHA’s position, we’d appreciate it if you let us know and more importantly let your senators and congressmen in Washington, D.C., know. If you disagree, we want to hear from you, too, but please offer a constructive alternative, not just criticism. And remember, AQHA is about the horse and about educating owners on options they have. It is not about sensationalizing a very emotional issue.

First, let me just say that this is what AQHA claims is being "sensationalized" by proponents of the bill (warning, graphic images).

Furthermore, though, I'm curious as to how much money AQHA and others have syphoned into lobbying efforts against this bill. Because the thing is, there is a practical solution to this issue -- one that a single Massachusetts attorney, Steve Rei, undertook himself: he formed the National Equine Rescue Coalition and put together a database, with the help of the Humane Society and law enforcement, of rescue organizations willing and able to take in surplus horses if and when the proposed legislation goes into effect. He calls the 1 percent of horses who will need homes a "manageable number, only citing “adequate funding” as the major issue. I'm guessing that the lobbyists' fees for each of the 200+ members of the "Horse Welfare Coalition" combined could likely fund the absorption of those horses that would otherwise be slaughtered.

In its response to me via email this week, the AQHA again beat the “no solution” drum, noting that "The majority of AQHA's membership is opposed to the pending federal legislation as it does not provide for a means to care for the nearly 100,000 unwanted horses each year" that are sent to slaughter.

I have a hard time believing that a "majority" of AQHA members feel this way. I'm curious as to the polling they've done on that, and what the questions/set up to it looked like. In fact, most of the AQHA members that I've talked to since hearing about the Horse Slaughter Prevention Act had never heard of it.

And with annual revenue somewhere in the ballpark of $50 million and an Incentive Fund program that pays out more than $4 million dollars of “fun money just for showing” to eligible members, it kind of makes you wonder what AQHA, whose horses comprise 80 percent of those slaughtered, might have been able to come up with had they actually wanted to attempt to solve the problem.

And now I’m faced with an ethical dilemma. You see, in June of 2006, I bought a beautiful, black, and spunky Quarter Horse named The Ironman (a.k.a. Gino). I’ve literally been waiting since then for this summer, his three-year-old year. Every time I’ve taken him out of his stall, walked him down the aisle, clipped his whiskers, or felt the quiet rhythm of his lope beneath me, I’ve imagined marching into the show ring atop him. I’ve imagined what it would be like, once again, to spend hot summer weekend days bathing him, braiding him, hearing our name and number called at the end of a particularly good go, and hanging out with horse people who I practically grew up with.

But I’m having a difficult time justifying giving my hard-earned money to an organization that condones something as horrific as slaughtering horses because it sees no other obvious solution. An organization who thinks this, this, this or this is a necessary evil.

I don’t want to boycott AQHA. The shows it sponsors throughout Wisconsin and the rest of the country have become like second homes to me. I know many of those show grounds better than the back of my hand. I know how the shows work, who to talk to about what issue, and all of the other minor ins and outs involved.

When we were younger, getting ready to move from the house we grew up in to a new house, my little sister sobbed. When asked what was wrong, she hiccupped, “But I’m not going to know where any of the light switches are.” And this is how I feel, pondering leaving this association that I have known so long and, I thought, so well. A new association? New shows? New people? New rules? I’m afraid I won’t know where the light switches are.

But it’s something I think I’m going to just have to learn. Because I don’t think that I can square up with AQHA on this one, and I don’t think I can ignore it. I’d be surprised at who would be able to, once they took an honest, hard look at the issue.

Be Afraid

2008-04-14T09:13:00.000-07:00

XT4 threw the question out recently about what makes people afraid, and what use fear is.

Fear is something I know a great deal about. We're good friends, fear and I.

Growing up, I arguably had two of the most dangerous hobbies a girl could have. In the winter I ski raced. In the summer I jumped horses. And I don't care how used to doing each you get, there are still points where straight-up fear makes your arms feel numb and takes your breath straight from your lungs.

I am in eighth grade. I am standing atop the Super-G course in Winter Park, Colorado at the Junior Olympics. I can see the first two gates, and nothing more. I have never raced a real, honest-to-god Super-G course before in my life. I am wearing a borrowed helmet meant for motorcycle riding, not ski racing, and borrowed skis that are long and heavy and that I wouldn't be able to turn if I wanted them to. They are meant to go nearly straight down the hill, these skis. And it's a steep hill. The timer beeps -- five, four, three, two. I want to cry, but instead I breathe deep and push out. I get into a tuck, and I concentrate. I try to settle into the speed, my fear of it. My internal monologue goes something like this: "This is too fast. It's too fast." -- "If you try to slow down, you're going to crash. Go faster. That's the only way to the bottom." -- "It's too fast." -- "It's the only way." I am going more than 40 miles an hour on two slabs attached to my feet. I ride the rollers, pre-jumping them to minimize time spent in air, off the snow. Air is not fast. Coming off a roller at the bottom third of the course, I catch too much air, and upon landing, one of my edges. I somersault down the mountain. I lose my gloves, my goggles, and my helmet. I come to rest in orange netting that lines the sides of the course, like a fly in a web. I can't breathe. I can't hear. And then I can. Officials rush over to make sure all limbs are attached and in working order. Others gather my gear, spread over a football-length swath of the course. They put me back together. That was my final training run. The following day would be one race run -- the real deal. I will work all night on managing my fear. I will be more afraid standing in the starting gate the next day. But I will stand, and finish eighth.

I am 15 years old, taking a jumping lesson from my French riding instructor. He used to ride Grand Prix, a step below the Olympics. To him, the 3'6' oxer he had constructed was child's play. Just another obstacle. To me, it looked like certain death. Add its immensity to the fact that I was atop a stubborn horse who was prone to run-outs and refusals, and I was tempted to simply tell him, "No. I can't" -- words I had never said to him before. Not when he took away our stirrups for an entire winter. Not when he had me do an entire jumping lesson without them. Not even when, one summer, the inside of my legs were rubbed so raw from the previous day's lesson that they were bleeding through my jodhpurs, and he announced there would be one more hour of riding after dinner.

"You vill do zees," he yells to me.

It was an exercise to make my stubborn horse work. This is all fine and good, except that I could just as easily break an arm, shoulder, or hip...get trampled by my horse.

"You vill do zees," he says again.

I touch my leg to my horse's flank, gather my reins, and get up into a two-point position. I swallow hard with each step. The oxer looks gigantic, taller than my horse. I urge him forward, keeping my eyes straight ahead. Four strides, three strides, two strides. I close my legs, feel his front feet pick up the ground. And find myself flying through the air. I crash into the wooden jump poles. The sonofabitch horse had pulled up right as we were supposed to be taking off.

After discerning that I was okay, just rattled, my trainer shouts, "Again."

The next time we made it over, but he knocks a rail down and I land draped over my horse's neck like a dead man. The next he jumps from a standstill, my trainer shouting, "You vill go over!" and me thinking, "This is how I die."

But more than an hour later, my legs long past having turned to pudding and my horse's neck lathered in white, foamy sweat, we make it over like we should.

These are only two examples. I have hundreds more. But in these two sports, I learned how to manage my fear. I had no choice. Guiding skis down a mountain, or a 1,000 pound animal over poles suspended two or three feet off the ground -- as they say in Top Gun, "There's no time to think up there. You think, and you're dead."

And all last year was an exercise in managing fear of a different sort. In the run-up to Ironman, it did not come in the short, intense bursts of my childhood sports. Rather the fear was always there with me -- every morning when I woke up, every time I looked at my workout schedule, every time I saw the roiling waters of Lake Monona, every time I saw a cyclist ride by, every time I descended a hill on my bike, or set out on a seemingly impossibly-long ride.

People would discover I was training for an Ironman and would inevitably ask how I stayed motivated. "I'm afraid," I would answer.

They thought it was a joke. I couldn't have been more serious.

When I didn't feel like working out, or when I didn't think that I could possibly do another mile, or the last hour of a 8-hour double-brick, I would hear, loud and clear, the phrase, "If you don't do this..." The last part of that phrase was, "...how are you going to do an Ironman?" But it never had to get that far. The "if" was enough. I didn't want to die out there on September 9th, or worse, miss a cut-off and have to pull out. I also cried, a lot. After a few bad swim sessions. On the sides of country roads throughout southern Wisconsin. On my bike. Behind several rest stops on the Dairyland Dare.

And this year, the fear has returned, albeit anew, in a different form. After months and months of sporadic workouts, I have started training again. And I am afraid. Last week I was afraid of a 30-mile bike ride. I was scheduled for a 10-mile run yesterday, and until 4:30 when I set out, I had fretted about it all weekend. For the past few years, I have uttered ridiculous phrases like, "I just have to do a quick ten and then I'll meet you for happy hour" or "I only have ten miles today -- almost seems like a day off." But lately, that me feels like a distant cousin at best...a stranger I might meet on the street at worst.

I am afraid I am not fast (I am not), that I am not in shape (I am not), and that my Ironman finish was a fluke (I know it wasn't). These fears are ridiculous. But they are there all the same. So I am going to have to make friends with them. Invite them in for coffee. Get to know them.

And I'm looking forward to it -- the getting to know them. Because this thing wouldn't be worth doing if it were easy. If there was nothing at stake, nothing to risk.

As a wise man told me over burritos not long ago, that becoming an Ironman is a huge accomplishment, and one you'll always have. But the 8:30 miles, the 4-hour bricks, the feeling like a fish in the water? Those things come and go. They take work. Hard work. They have to be earned. Over and over and over again. No matter who you are.

And so, yesterday, I made another small step toward earning it. Again. I ran a comfortable 6.5 miles with Chief of Stuff, and Leonard and Newt the Vizslas. It was one of those runs where it was easier and more comfortable to keep running than to walk -- not my usual m.o. And when I dropped them off at our house, I set out by myself for another 3.5 miles.

The sun was on its way down for the night. The air felt more winter than spring. My opposite foot and glute ached. I had no Garmin, no idea how fast I was going. But I was moving forward. And last night, laying in bed with aching legs and the familiar cough that comes from long workouts, I remembered what it felt like to be afraid, and do it anyway.

Seven Things...Plus or Minus About 93 Others

2008-04-07T09:26:00.000-07:00

Anyone still there?

*Blink* *Blink*

It's me. I've been gone a good, long while. I spent the past eight weeks trying -- unfortunatlely, unsuccessfully -- to retain Justice Butler on the Wisconsin Supreme Court. It was a typical campaign stint: crazy-long hours, not enough time to do what needs doing, no sleep, hardly a moment to spare for any sort of workout, only sporadic email checking, and absolutely zero time to keep up on what's going on in the blogosphere. But it was one of the most amazingly satisfying jobs that I've ever had. I just wish the outcome would've been different.

So, now I'm catching up. On sleep. On workouts. On life. And over on xT4's blog, I discovered that I had been tagged.

As luck would have it, I started a "100 Things" list a while back, but never finished or posted it. So, xT4, here is your "seven things," plus or minus about 93 others. And Deebs, In the Lup, Lynn, and Krista...you're it (but feel free to do the short version of "Seven Things" which would be, ummm, seven things about you.)

I hate wearing socks. Ever. Even in winter. Even on my bike.
I eat Milk Duds with my popcorn at movies. Tastes like Carmel corn. And I can't see a movie without getting some kind of treat. Otherwise, why go?
My worst jobs ever were (in no particular order): temping for a trucking company doing manifest entry, working at Victoria's Secret (having just acquired not one, but two, graduate degrees), and doing "public relations" for an health savings account company.
I enjoyed my gigs as a waitress. No lie.
I'm secretly fascinated by tornadoes. I want to see one in real life. In the same vein, one of my favorite things to watch is "Storm Stories" on the Weather Channel.
I have never balanced a checkbook. Wouldn't know how if I tried.
I'm compulsive about hand cream. If my hands aren't lotioned they feel like sandpaper and the feeling gives me the willies. During the Ironman, and my other long training days, I'd spit on them to make them feel lotioned.
I once stopped seeing a perfectly nice guy because he wore white socks with deck shoes. Ditto for another who said the word, "drinky-poo." Yet, I stayed with at least two boyfriends who had cheated on me.
After one of the cheaters broke my heart, my mom got me the book, The Rules. I read it and then promptly chucked it. Even at 16, I knew better.
I used to be a serious nail-biter. I'm in remission.
Elmo makes me laugh in spite of myself.
I was once mistaken for Alyssa Milano.
I like animals better than people. And I think puppies are cuter than babies.
I believe in ghosts. And they scare me.
My dogs sleep with me. I like it that way.
I have a Master of Arts degree in Composition Pedagogy and a Master of Fine Arts degree in Fiction. I also have a completed novel manuscript ready to send out as soon as I sit down and make final edits to it. So far, it's been in this state for well over a year.
One of the hardest things for me is to make a decision. It's a "skill" I've actively been working on learning.
I feel as though I've mostly avoided therapy because of my horses and my running shoes.
That said, I don't understand why skinny people run. If I was a size 2 and could eat anything I wanted, running would likely not be something I'd choose to do with my free time.
I eat pretty much anything, and love to eat. The exceptions are mushrooms (most of the time), mussels, and clams. This is also why I run.
I hate when the food on my plate touches. And I don't mix foods. That means no seafood in my pasta, even though I love both seafood and pasta.
When I was nine I told my pediatrician that I wanted to be a jockey. He laughed and told me to start thinking basketball. I was one of the tallest people in my class until 8th grade, when I quit growing altogether. I maxed out at 5'2".
I hold the misguided opinion that the more my jeans cost, the better they'll look. Bop loves me.
I'm anally neat. My CD's are alphabetized, my books grouped according to genre and author, and my sweaters and shirts sorted by color. I loathe knick-nacks. If it doesn't have a function, it's not on my shelf.
I don't drink milk straight-up. Ever.
I have the best family anyone could ever ask for. Seriously.
My ideal night is curling up with my dogs on the couch in front of a fire with a great book and even better glass of wine. Second-most ideal night is throwing a dinner party for a few close friends.
Crowds, cocktail parties, and meeting new people stress me out.
I did the South Beach Diet once with great success. But after two weeks of no lattes and no wine, I was a raging bitch.
I hate Halloween.
I can't spell to save my life, but I'm a grammar nazi.
On that note, I secretly love diagramming sentences.
The sound of Styrofoam nearly brings me to my knees.
My favorite movie of all time is Top Gun. Coincidentally, as late as my junior year in high school, I wanted to attend the Air Force Academy...partially to be a fighter pilot, and partially to ski for their alpine team. When it appeared that I wouldn't be able to do either, I changed my mind.
I'm scared of flying.
I completely blew out both of my knees in high school, one year after the next. My knees have seen five surgeries between them. The resulting scars are ugly, and I love them.
I'm not self-conscious enough to have ever been really, truly embarrassed.
I hate nylons and will wear them only if absolutely necessary, and only if they're black or navy blue. Tan-colored hose gross me out. Come to think of it, so does the word, "hose."
My sister often affectionately refers to me as the "dumbest smart person she knows." I often tend to agree with her.
I'm deathly afraid of spiders. But they fascinate me at the same time, with all of their legs and eyes.
The feel of dirt on my hands also gives me the willies. This is why I don't garden. But I do have a horse, and time spent at the barn is usually supplemented with frequent hand-washing.
This and the lotioning thing makes me sound borderline compulsive. I'm not. I just like clean and conditioned hands.
When I was a toddler, I cracked my forehead open right down the middle as the result of a temper tantrum when my parents refused to take me to the "big park" down the street. The resulting scar has become a lifelong symbol of my intense temper.
There are few things I love more than reading. If there is a version of alcoholism as it relates to book consumption, I have it. I can't go into Barnes and Noble without buying at least one.
I love wine. Really, really love it. Even more than chocolate. And it's not about the resulting buzz; it's about the taste. The way it coats your tongue and mouth and warms you from the inside out. I look forward to every glass...to what tastes I might discover in it.
A Starbucks latte is second behind wine. Fourbucks makes my coffee taste the same way, every day, and that's why I love it.
If I could survive on only lattes and wine, I would.
Oh, and maybe soup, too. I will eat soup anytime, in any weather.
I don't eat salad unless I absolutely have to.
Except for Taco Bell's taco salad.
I love Taco Bell in general and am not ashamed of it. Most of the time.
I could easily go days -- if not weeks -- without turning the television on, were it not for my need to know what the weather is like when I wake up so I can plan my outfit for the day.
The day I had to put my dog, Lewis, down was the worst day of my life, hands down.
This and this were two of the best. As was this...although it didn't seem so at the time, and it's not a day I want to repeat anytime soon, if ever.
I have never asked for anyone's autograph, and never would, no matter how famous the person is.
I hate doing touristy things, ever. In any city. I'd rather sit at a cafe and people watch, or somehow immerse myself in the culture in other ways.
I don't much care for flowers.
I've often flirted with the idea of becoming a vegetarian, and I'm slowly losing my taste for chicken. But a huge, juicy steak once in a while? LOVE it. So, the vegetarian thing, probably kind of a pipe dream.
I won't eat fruit or vegetables that come in a can. Ditto for tuna. But I love all of them in their natural state.
I'm not certain I want to have kids, but if I do, they won't have a TV or computer in their rooms, and I won't buy them any kind of video games.
But I will make them cupcakes to take to school for treat days, and will not force them to eat tofu (sorry mom).
I'm actually a pretty fun person, #61 aside.
I love looking at real estate. Even when I have a place to live. Even when I couldn't afford a new place if I wanted one. The market fascinates me...as do the decorating choices some people make.
I don't buy chips or cookies. If I want a snack, I make it from scratch (usually oatmeal chocolate chip cookies). This happens next-to-never. Therefore, I almost never snack.
My sister's hip bones are at the approximate height of my boobs. I've long resented her for this.
But she's my best friend. Ever.
I qualified my horse for the World Championships in two different events...once. I made the semi-finals in Junior Hunter Hack. My goal is to go back and win it -- or one of the other over fences classes -- eventually.
My new horse's registered name was "In the Pocket" when I got him. But his Dad's name is "Natural Iron." So, after Ironman Wisconsin (too superstitious to do it before), we petitioned to have his name changed. He's now, "The Ironman," and he's pitch black. How cool is that?
I'd like to learn (or learn about) the following in no particular order: violin, photography, web design stuff, to sing, ballet*, piano*, *golf, the stock market/investing...I doubt I will do any. (*took lessons a long, long time ago, but am terrible).
There's not a day that passes that I don't wish I was a musician of some sort.
I'm okay with being a word person, though.
The first concert I ever saw was Richard Marx. My sister and I used to fall asleep listening to him every night. You can laugh now (But it was free!).
I went to six proms in high school. Four of them were miserable.
I am a Yooper -- born and raised in the Upper Peninsual of Michigan. Almost my whole family is still there. That place is rural as all get-out (and people there often say things like "all get-out"), but there is a beauty and magic to it that is hard to describe. I'm incredibly proud to call that place home.
I always said I'd never get married in Iron Mountain, my hometown. Guess where the wedding will be? Yup! Iron Mountain, baby.
I worry about money constantly. But I do nothing to attempt spending less or even managing what I have better. I am working on this.
I look and feel better with a tan.
I swear too much. But I don't try to stop.
I'm jealous of skinny people. Not just Hollywood-skinny-people -- I harbor twinges of resentment for anyone whose fat jeans are a size 26. Irrationally, I believe their lives must be easier for not having to worry about their weight.
I've never been overweight, but have always felt like I am.
I like what I do for a living, but am now thinking of the next phase of my life and how I really want to spend the 40+ hours of the week dedicated to my job.
If I could do anything I'd be a full-time writer/author.
My back is constantly itchy, and in need of cracking.
The only bone I've ever broken is my tailbone. Oh, and I cracked my nose a wee bit once too.
I wanted to make the US Ski Team. I didn't.
But they sent me an invite to their development camp when I was a freshman in high school, and I made the Junior Olympics twice in all four disciplines -- downhill, super G, GS, and slalom.
I still regret quitting skiing after high school.
I buy US Weekly on a regular basis.
I don't like beer, and will only drink it if I have to. The exception is a cold beer on a hot summer day -- the beauty of which mom imparted to me.
I don't follow sports.
I have no favorite color. Not because I can't choose, but because I just don't.
I have no favorite book or song or artist or band. Because I can't choose. I just can't.
I hope to someday qualify for Boston. I'm willing to do it through "aging up."
I think most people are generally good. The exception is anyone who treats another -- anyone -- as less-than. Waitstaff, counter help, employees, etc... I have no patience for that kind of behavior.
Patience is a virtue I have very, very little of in general. Unless it's with one of my dogs.
My sister is one of the most patient, kindest people I've ever met. When angry or impatient, or in tough situations with others, I spend most of my time thinking, WWLD (What Would Lindsey Do?)
In college I majored in Religious Studies and English, after toying with majors in psychology, statistics, French, and pre-veterinary.
After that series of changes, my parents took me to the Johnson-O'Connor institute for aptitude testing. They told me I had an affinity for languages, that I should be either a psychologist (my mom's former profession) or a lawyer (my dad's profession), but to stay the hell away from anything requiring dexterity...like performing surgeries on poor, unsuspecting animals.
I have lived in only two states my entire life -- Michigan and Wisconsin -- with only brief, temporary moves to Washington, D.C. (six months -- for an immersion program in journalism) and New Jersey (yes, really) (one month -- for The Ex).
With respect to life lessons, 2007 was one of the most heartbreaking-challenging and amazing years of my life, all at the same time.

Geeking Out in Mineral Point

2008-03-11T12:12:00.000-07:00

So, I haven't been here for a while. That's because this new job is kicking my ass, but in a really fun way. It's just also intense, and takes a lot (read: all) free time. Kind of like the Ironman of politics. Okay, well, not really. But in the amount of time it takes, yes.

Anyway, this weekend I took a little break from politics to indulge in one of my main loves -- writing. In the picturesque little hamlet of Mineral Point, I immersed myself for an entire afternoon and evening in all things Michael Perry.

For those of you who don't know of Michael Perry, you should. And I say that with excitement, not snottiness. Because he's brilliant. A brilliant, brilliant writer who writes about accessible things like small town life with humor, poignancy, and make-your-bones-tingle-in-envy skill.

His breakthrough book, and still my favorite, starts out this way: "Summer here comes on like a zaftig hippie chick, jazzed on chlorophyll and flinging fistfuls of butterflies to the sun." And that's just the beginning. It only gets better. It's good -- seriously good. And funny. I think I mentioned funny.

Perry is confusing, intriguing mix between a humble, farm-raised, deer hunting, truck driving, good 'ol Wisconsin guy and an accomplished literati who quotes Dylan Thomas. He wears flannel and t-shirts, and that, combined with his Wisconsin drawl, almost lulls you into thinking that he's just like any of the hardworking guys sitting on stools in bars on any country road in the state. Except that he doesn't drink. And he drops words like "declivitous"in mid-sentence without blinking.

And then -- then! -- after the informative seminar on freelancing and writing in general, and after his incredibly entertaining reading of his upcoming book, he took the stage with his band, The Longbeds. And they were good. Very much a Johnny Cash and Waylan Jennings influence to the music.

But there was one thing that kept catching my eye throughout -- a little black and red emblem on Michael Perry's guitar.

And I would lean myself over Chief of Stuff and crane my neck and horrendous angles to see if it really was...And after the show was done, and he set his guitar down, I discerned that it was, in fact, an M-dot.

Michael Perry with an Ironman logo on his guitar! What could it mean?!

I was thinking there was some deep, symbolic reason for the M-dot. Chief of Stuff thought otherwise -- that maybe his brother, wife, or some other person close to him was doing the race. ..or that maybe he was. Perhaps. But I remain unconvinced, and just to make sure, I dropped him an email to inquire.

I'll keep you all posted. Because I know you're waiting on the edge of your seat for this.

Dear Weather Gods...

2008-02-29T11:00:00.000-08:00

To whom it may concern up there:

When I said that I "loved winter running" I did not have in mind the following:

Inches and inches of sugar-snow mixed with sand so as to make running in Madison akin to running on a beach, just without the waves, soft breeze, or balmy temperatures;
Paths along roads that look like sidewalks, and act like sidewalks, and seemingly used to be sidewalks, but that have somehow been transformed into 3' x 4-mile ice rinks;
Temperatures so cold that my Vizslas have actually refused to venture outside;
An outdoor landscape where even the middle of the road isn't a safe place to run, given the ice-packed medians, and whole side streets that look more like bobsled tracks for cars;
Rain, then snow, then rain...all in the same day;
More of that scheduled for Sunday.

And if you think I'm whining, I'm not. I have company. Here, here, and here. And I'm sure elsewhere, too.

And I know we chose to live here and all of that -- blah blah blah-- but this has passed the point of ridiculousness. So please make it stop. Now.

Thanks, Erin

Game On

2008-02-28T16:54:00.000-08:00

In breaking with my usual m.o. of never pre-registering for any race, I just hit "register now" for this:

Of Fishes and Bicycles

2008-02-26T11:31:00.001-08:00

A week ago Saturday, I put myself back in the water for the first time since September 9th.

It was a gray day. Not much going on. After an extraordinarily busy few weeks, Chief of Stuff and I, mercifully, had no plans that evening. He asked what we should do. I'm sure he was thinking something along the lines of if we should stay in and cook dinner or go out...order a movie On Demand, or go to see one in the theater.

I said, "Swim!"

I don't know where it came from, this sudden desire to go aquatic in the midst of yet another snowstorm, but as soon as I said it, that was all I wanted to do.

CoS looked at me skeptically. It wasn't like he wasn't ready to swim, after all. He had all the gear. He just had yet to actually get in the water.

We went through what he'd need for a session at the pool. Flip-flops, towel, goggles, shorts, etc., etc. Good reminders for me, as well. Although I was pleased to find that my swimming bag was still neatly packed from last season, and pretty much everything I needed was already in there -- including a fresh towel.

During the drive to the pool, I began to see that the excitement I felt about swimming wasn't shared by everyone in the car. From the passenger's seat, CoS launched question after question at me: "How much should you kick?," "What's the key thing to remember?," "How fast should you go,?"

"Don't worry so much," I told him. "It's not like you're going to drown."

And then he asked,"So how do you breathe?"

Simple enough question, but I didn't really know. I didn't know how I did it...I just did.

Wrong thing to say, though, I guess.

He asked how I could just sit there and tell him to relax and not worry when breathing came so naturally to me that I couldn't even explain how I did it.

Truth was, I had no idea. I tried to explain, but I couldn't figure out when I breathed, or where my arm was in rotation when I did it, or anything else about how I swam.

And then, I said even more wrong things. About how, during some particularly grueling training swims for the Ironman, and during the Ironman itself, I caught myself thinking, "I feel like a fish," in the best possible way. As in, minus the gills, I felt completely at home in the water. Comfortable. Safe. Totally at ease.

One could see how this wouldn't help. At all.

I was nervous too, though. Had I forgotten how to swim? Would the me that put down a sub-1:30 Ironman swim be a me of the past, for good? Or would it be like riding a bike?

Long story short, we made it to the pool without any major meltdowns, and no one drowned. No one even came close. CoS and I did some drills, and I marveled at how my body floats easily at times when CoS's lean frame tends to...well, not float. Legs mainly. Chalk that one up to the high-numbered result I got on the body composition test I had done a few weeks back, I guess. Sigh.

I got in a handful of 100s, and pulled out the fly now and then. And breathed deep that chlorine smell. It spoke to me a bit, that smell, as smells and tastes sometimes do. Because suddenly, I was back there, on a hard workout at the end of the day when the last thing I wanted to do was climb into a swimsuit. Back there where I didn't know yet if I could...if I would...pull this thing called Ironman off. Back there where I simply got into the water, and swam, stroke-after-stroke, until I knew that I could do it for 2.4. Great feelings all, and suddenly, being back there, so close to them, I was giddy again with excitement. The pool was closing; but I didn't want to go home. I wanted to feel my shoulders burn on a 400, feel my lungs burn and heave after a 100 IM.

It was good to be back there...and to be at the beginning of getting back in general. That's been a constant battle this winter, what with the mental Ironman recovery I battled, the never-ending white stuff and freezing rain, and now, this new gig I'm doing (that's tres fun but a huge time commitment), but if I have to start a hundred times over again, I will. This fish is back on the bike, figuratively, and hopefully soon, literally.

Slothness

2008-02-13T15:10:00.000-08:00

That's me. It's been exactly 11 days since I've run. Eleven days. And in that time, I've taken only one additional trip to the gym to fit in a too-quick lifting workout.

That is pathetic.

I'm embarrassed at me. Em-bar-assed.

I could blame it on my job, and job change. I could blame it on the weather. Or the killer who's in our neighborhood. But the truth is, I just haven't gotten it done.

Like last night. I got home from traveling for work at 10 p.m.. I could've gone for a run. It was cold, yes. But I've run in worse. And it was late, yes. But how to explain, then, that I stayed up until 2 a.m., drinking wine, as an excuse to catch up with Chief of Stuff after not seeing him for two days?...And as result of the wine-drinking/overindulgence, that I couldn't drag myself out of bed before reporting to work early enough to get a run in.

Sloth. That's how.

And now, as a result of the past almost two weeks of not doing a damn thing, I feel chubby and out of shape when I was right in the middle of building such a good base. And sad. For me. Let's not forget that. Because I have a wedding in Vegas to attend in a month. And my own wedding in about 10. Oh, and a marathon in May. Which is practically tomorrow.

Lord help me.

So, it's starting tomorrow. Again.

But seriously, how many times am I going to re-start? It's never been this hard before to stay on track. And yes, that's me whining. Just tune me out.

Tomorrow, the temps are supposed to climb into double-digits. And I plan to be well-rested and up early (for me). And I plan to run.

We'll see what happens. Stay tuned.

Circuit Breaker

2008-01-31T11:44:00.000-08:00

So I joined a gym. I mean, before, I belonged to the YMCA...still do, I guess, if you want to parse words. But that was mostly for the pool. I'd usually work out in the facility at my condo (which, I might add, for a home gym-type sitch, was fantastic). But a broken water pipe in the workout room and no longer living at my condo has somewhat put the kabosh on that plan. Thus, the joining of a gym. Just two blocks from where I work. With the option of getting a killer protein shakes after (and having it just added to your monthly tab). With my masuse right upstairs. And with a bunch of cool stuff thrown at you just for joining up. Life, my friends, is good.

Or was good. Or, still is good, techically. Just more painfull now. Thanks to circuits.

With the new membership, you get a free traning session. Mine was with Kristy, who was pleased as punch to have been assigned someone who had actually been in a gym before. When she heard I had just done the Ironman, she was downright giddy. I tried to temper her excitement, given that the body sitting in front of her didn't much resemble the one that had covered 140.6 a handful of months back. But she was undaunted. Even when she read the results of my body composition test (which will forever stay in the confines of her little office) she kept referring to me as an "athlete."

I knew I was in a bit of trouble. Two weeks before Christmas, I hit the gym armed with a workout program The Ex had designed for me. And the gym hit back. Hard. So hard, in fact, that for three full days after, I could not use my right arm. Pulling my hair back in a ponytail, brushing my hair, putting on makeup, and even sleeping, all went by the wayside because of the pain. Had I not been with me that whole time, I would've sworn I had broken my arm. I was not prepared for a personal trainer who thought I was an athelte. And I most definitely was not prepared for circuits.

During that session with Kristy, I nearly puked twice, and came close to blacking out once. This regularly happened to me during track practice throughout high school and college. I expected it during the Dairyland Dare. But never have I done either in a gym before. Not even close.

And yesterday, it happened again.

I was slated for mile repeats, a 400m walk break in between. And then after? Circuits.

To borrow a term from The ELF, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I think I saw the Wizard.

I had nearly forgotten what he looks like -- the Wizard. I think the last time I maybe saw him was running the 800 during track. And this time, I didn't catch him. I just waved to him. Honestly, he was so far out in front of me that I don't know if he waved back. I was too busy trying not to throw up on the treadmill. And then again on the step-up box. And after that on the bosu ball, on the bench doing push-ups with dumb bells, and after that, crunches.

I started the repeats at 7.5 on the treadmill, and would run the last quarter-mile at 8.0. After the first, my arms tingled the kind of I-don't-have-enough-oxygen-coming-to-me-you-stupid-girl tingle/hurt that you know only signals more -- and longer -- hurt to come. Unless your schedule only calls you to do one mile, no repeats. And I have never seen one of these schedules. If anyone out there does have a schedule like that, please forward it on to me. I will be forever indebted.

On the second mile repeat, a pretty boy wearing half a bottle of cologne stepped on the 'mill next to mine. I wanted to throw up a little from the smell at the very start. By the end, I was seeing stars and had to take a quick break to quell the dry heaving going on, which seemed to totally gross out the sorority girl walking at a brisk 3.5 next to me.

On the final repeat, the dry heaving started at the quarter mile mark. I put Kanye West's "Stronger" on repeat, but finally, afraid it would turn to wet-heaving, I broke up the last set into two half-mile repeats. It felt like failure. But my official training plan has yet to start. I have time to work up to non-failure.

In the locker room, on my blackberry, I exchanged quick emails with Cheif of Stuff. You can either come get me now or I can lift, I wrote. What I meant was, "Please come get me now. Please, please, please, please. Go ahead and lift. Talking to boss, he wrote back.

Damn.

So I did. I fit in 45 minutes worth of circuits after that. And I pretty much thought I would die, since I had been gasping for breath for say, oh, an hour and a half.

But I didn't die. It felt good. Great even. (Eventually. Like at 10 o'clock that night). And tonight, I'm going back for more. Because this season I'm giving the long and slow stuff a break. This season is about speed and strength. And all that I've read indicates that circuits and intervals are at the heart of making that happen.

So, if you see the wizzard, tell him I'm coming for him. I might not catch him today. Or next week. Or next month. But eventually, we'll meet up.

Public Relations 101

2008-01-29T12:47:00.001-08:00

I'm not sure who is handling Charter Communications' communications, but whomever it is, they should be fired after this.* Or, maybe Charter should fire itself.

Because let me get this straight...a company totally and completely wipes out the email accounts of 14,000 people across the country -- pictures, records of purchases, important correspondence that those people purposely saved in their email accounts -- and this is their answer: "Charter Communications officials in suburban St. Louis said they think a software error occurred while inactive accounts were being routinely deleted, wiping out the contents of active accounts, as well. They said they are sorry but there is no way to retrieve the information."

Oh, and let's not forget the company is offering a whopping $50 rebate in addition to that stunning (non) apology. Compassion, Conviciton, Optimism (CCO) -- the most basic rule of crisis communications? Seems that Charter missed that one in PR school.

My lord. Communications professionals everywhere shudder.

Extra Set of Footsteps

2008-01-29T10:42:00.000-08:00

That's how Krista describes the beauty of having a running partner: "...running is a solo sport, but even if you run 10 miles without sharing a word, it’s better to hear the extra set of footsteps, and to have someone to commiserate with when the run felt like shit."

This past weekend we -- Krista and I -- shared another seven-miler on a Saturday morning. The sun was out, it was above freezing temperature-wise, and it still sucked. For me at least. The running, not the company.

With unplowed streets and sidewalks and the snow covering them the consistency of sugar sand, seven miles felt like twenty. By the end, my ankles hurt, my lower back was screaming, and my feet were numb...just not from the cold this time. Oh, and some old IM injury that never really materialized but never really went away (feels like an IT band issue, only it runs along the back of my leg and over the corresponding butt cheek) kept flaring up. And along the way, I complained about it all -- the snow, the aches and pains, et cetera -- again and again. I cajoled Krista into stopping to stretch more than once. Partially because the IM injury-ish thing was aggravating, and partially because I jut plain old wanted a reprieve from the damn unrelenting sugar snow underfoot. I was, in part or in whole, a substandard running partner.

But, that's how you know when you've found a good one. They let you stop and stretch without running circles around you, or sighing disapprovingly while they check their Garmin.

And they talk to you. Like old friends talk, even if you've only met a couple of times.

There's just something about sharing a run with someone. And for once, words fail me as to what it is.

I remember pouring my heart out to my roommate Jamie during college as we pounded out a quick four-miles roundtrip through the streets and bridges of DePere about the difficulties of our (or my) living situation, and/or boys. To this day, I remember the tie-dyed shirt she wore and her uber-efficient stride that I can't keep up with even now. And I remember those runs as the starting, defining moment of our friendship.

I remember running with Pammy one day during graduate school, in the dead of a Marquette winter. We were quiet nearly the whole time. Yet, I can still pick that run out of so many others; I can see it in my mind's eye. Us slogging our way through the slush and snow and cold, shoulder to shoulder, footfalls perfectly matched.

Or running with Patrick during the one hour he could spare in between other engagements the last time he was in Madison. It was muggy and hot, and we packed more catching up into one six-mile run than we likely could have over one six-pack, and it was far more fulfilling. Yet, it still wasn't quite enough.

And then there are all of the runs I've shared with Chief of Stuff over the past two years or so. The runs when I was still with The Ex, when we were just getting to know one another. The IM training runs he'd do with me -- especially the oh-my-god-this-seems-like-it's-going-to-last-forever 16-miler we did side-by-side on treadmills last March, watching episode after episode of Workout. Or the four miles we did just last week in the dark, in the cold, in which he let me bitch for forty minutes straight about my work issue du jour.

Now and then, running alone is just what you need. But until recently, I'd forgotten the sheer comfort of a regular or even semi-regular running partner. I'd forgotten what I was missing. And now that I've rediscovered it, I'm hooked on the sound of the extra set of footsteps beside me.

World's Quickest Movie Reviews, Take II

2008-01-25T11:06:00.000-08:00

"There Will Be Blood" -- could've/should've been called, "There Will Be Boredom." In short, don't bother. Everything you need to see is in the trailer.

Salon.com sums it up nicely in this review: Paul Thomas Anderson's "There Will Be Blood" is an austere folly, a picture so ambitious, so filled with filmmaking, that its very scale almost obscures its blankness.

At the very best, it overreaches as a film. At the worst, though, it is incomplete and/or poorly-thought out. Go ahead and see for yourself, but don't say you weren't warned.

Because This Seemed All Too Perfect for Today...

2008-01-24T12:06:00.000-08:00

Musical Interlude

2008-01-23T12:37:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking lately that I need to update my Ipod playlist. Like yesterday. Because I've had the same stuff on there since way before the Green Bay Marathon in May of last year. That means I listened to it training for and during the marathon. And in all of my training sessions leading up to Ironman this past September (and folks, that was a LOT of hours spent with my little pink Ipod strapped to my arm). And in the limited running I've done since. Seriously, time for a change.

So, in the spirit of "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" here's what I've been listening to ad nauseum in the past year or so. Feel free to steal from the list...but please suggest some new stuff for me, too.

Dixie Chicks -- Traveling Soilder, Not Ready to Make Nice
Nelly -- Over and Over Again, Ride Wit Me, EI
R. Kelly -- Remix
Fall Out Boy -- This ain't a scene..., Sugar We're Going down
Red Hot Chili Peppers -- almost all, but favs are: Snow, Californication, Zepher, and Parallel Universe
Akon -- Smack That, Don't Matter
Sean Paul -- We Be Burnin', Give it Up to Me, Ever Blazin
In a Big Country -- song by same name.
Black Eyed Peas -- Hey Mamma, Don't Lie, Let's Get it Started
Kanye West -- Golddigger, Through the Wire, Stronger
The Killers -- Somebody Told Me, When You Were Young, Mr. Brightside, Smile Like You Mean It
Usher -- Yeah, Yeah
Eminem -- Lose Yourself
Violent Femmes -- Blister in the Sun
Beyonce -- Ring the Alarm, Deja Vu, Beautiful Liar
Shakira -- Whenever Wherever, Hips don't Lie, Objection, La Tortura
Survivor -- Eye of the Tiger
Van Halen -- Dreams, Runnin With the Devil, Jump, Panama, Dreams, Good Enough, Love Walks In, 5150
AC/DC -- Dirty Deeds, Thunderstruck, For Those About to Rock, Moneytalks
Wyclef Jean – The Sweetest Girl
Linkin Park – Numb, With You, One Step Closer

Into That Good Night

2008-01-23T07:39:00.000-08:00

I was going to post this yesterday, but waited. To see if the sadness would dissipate. If I'd gain a bit of perspective in the interim. But it didn't. I didn't.

Yesterday, Heath Ledger was found dead in his NYC apartment.

I don't know what about this news struck me so, but it's stayed with me, a whisper beneath the day's normal din.

I "read" US Weekly pretty regularly, but it's brain candy and not an obsession. I follow movies and Hollywood, but casually. I enjoyed Heath's acting, his choice of films, but would never have called myself a fan.

I disassociate with tragedy more than most people, I think. The Minneapolis bridge collapse...a Marine's remains found in the backyard of a superior's house...a local college student's disappearance...Brad Renfro's overdose. With all of these events, I say, "Oh, how sad." and I mean it. But I don't feel sad.

And yet.

With this news, I felt it. And I still don't understand why.

Perhaps it is because he seemed like such a private person, who didn't seek the limelight and paparazzi like many of his Hollywood cohorts. Or because he seemed relatively well-adjusted and down to earth -- a star who you wouldn't think of in terms of "had it coming." Because the inital conclusions seem to indicate that his death was completely accidental, or because of the endearing pictures you'd always see of him doting on his little girl. Or, perhaps, it was because he was young -- not too much younger than me, in fact -- and that I barely feel as though my life has started at this point...and his life with so much promise ahead -- his life is now over.

Regardless, the world has lost a great talent. That alone is sad.

And then -- then! -- you have this, from the Phelps brigade -- the same wingnuts who enjoy causing disturbances at military funerals and have led Wisconsin and other states to enact laws to prevent groups like theirs from showing up...or at least getting close to those services:

Come now, people. This is the same schizophrenic reasoning that the Westboro Baptist Church likes to apply to military deaths, too (that solders killed in action are suffering for the sins of a country that endorses homosexuality). Apparently, since he played a gay man in a film, Heath Ledger should suffer the same eternal damnation that the Westboro Wingnuts place on all homosexuals. Under that line of reasoning, we would have started court proceedings to hit Charlize Theron up with the death penalty or arrange a Nuremberg Trial for Bruno Ganz long ago. Good lord.

It'll be interesting to see if they actually pony up the funds to fly themselves all the way to Australia to picket. For the sake of the Ledger family, I sure hope they don't.

Ugh...all the way around...on so many levels. I think I'm going to go shower off now.

Ice, Ice Baby

2008-01-22T08:48:00.000-08:00

So, normally I'm in total agreement with assessments like this one. Essentially, stop whining about the cold, bundle up, and get out there. Because you inevitably enjoy it once you do. You're chilled for a few minutes at the start, and then, eventually, the blood starts pumping and the winter air suddenly doesn't seem so biting. In fact, because of that warming factor, running and snowshoeing outdoors are two of my favorite ways to enjoy the outdoors during all those months that precede and follow spring and summer.

So...

Last Thursday, I got home from work early. The sun was shining. I had pent-up anger to deal with as a result of work and other things. I also had a few new songs on my Ipod that I was jonesing to run to, and a new pair of kicks to try out. Oh, and I had two overly-excited Vizslas that I needed to do something with, exercise-wise, and not enough time to take them out to the barn before a 6:30 meeting I had to attend that night.

All of these things together necessitated a run. Nevermind that people had been talking for days about how bitter cold it was supposed to get -- oh, um, right about 5 o'clock on Thursday night. Or that my mom was already talking about how she was hoping for a snow day on Friday because of the cold. Or that leaving work, my car barely started and then, once it did, the radio was a garbled mess for a couple of minutes, trying to warm itself up.

Nevermind any of that, because I sure didn't.

Instead, I pulled on running tights and my fleece Patagonia pants over them. I layered on three shirts under the fleece vest that zipped tightly over it all. I put the dogs' coats on (Yes, they wear coats. Not for a Paris-Hilton-dressed-up-dog effect, but for functionality. The coats aren't cute, and the dogs are darn near bald) and smeared Vaseline over their paws.

And the three of us set out. Excited. To the tune of Wyclef's new tune, "Sweetest Girl" (which I just can't get enough of lately). That was, until we turned the corner and were hit head-on with the fiercest winter wind that I've felt in a long, long time. I couldn't catch my breath. And the dogs, almost dragging me down the sidewalk with their bounding only a minute before, were suddenly fighting for space behind me...their little ears folded inside-out and red from the wind. A woman standing outside of the hospital -- smoking -- shook her head at me as I passed. I was in too much pain to shake my head back at her.

I told them that we'd see how things went. If nothing else, we'd turn around and call it a day.

But once we hit the bike trail bordering the Arboretum, the wind subsided. It was still damn cold, though. I looked at my Garmin. Eight minutes in and my feet were already completely numb.

A greyhound of a runner turned out of the Arb and passed me by like I was standing still, his long legs soon carrying him out of sight. This, I decided, was what I needed to do. Get on my toes. Sprint. Get warm. Or, if not warm, at least get home more quickly.

And so the plan was hatched: run like hell, get home, get warm.

But a hitch in the plan presented itself in the form of sidewalks masquerading as ice rinks. And wind. And the sky darkening faster than I thought it would, turning my 3-miler into a 4-something-miler (I don't run on most of the bike trails after dark). And the fact that I couldn't sustain 8-minute miles for long. And my Ipod quitting because it froze itself. Oh, and my thighs and ass going numb in addition to my hands, feet, and face. I literally almost froze my ass off.

For four miles, we struggled -- Newt, Leonard, and me. I would run until I thought I might puke, stop briefly to catch my breath, feel terrible that I was making the dogs stand still (and hop around in an alternating three-legged dance), start running again until I thought I might puke, and repeat. Et cetera, ad nauseum. My four-mile tempo run had turned to the interval run from hell.

That night, as the dogs continued to lick their poor little paws, Chief of Stuff asked how things went. I told him that I had good news and bad news about the new shoes, for one -- good news was that I got to try them out. Bad news was that I'll have to take them for another spin to find out if they're comfortable or not, given that I couldn't feel my feet one iota. And when I checked the weather that night, I decided that running in that sort of cold was unnecessary and a little crazy. Sure, according to the NYT article, you're probably not going to die of hypothermia or frostbite when exercising outdoors for a short period of time, but that doesn't mean one shouldn't try to avoid either one. The dogs would have been better off climbing the walls for one more night, and I'd have been better off on the treadmill. Lesson learned.

Stats:

4 miles
8:38 average minute miles
Outside Temperature -- 6 degrees
Wind Chill -- (-)28 degrees

All That's Come Before

2008-01-15T12:22:00.000-08:00

There's a danger in not writing things down. In not remembering. The staples, you always remember those. Milk and eggs. Big birthdays and big breakups. But the fringe items get murky. They fade with time.

In a piece about The Ex, I wrote: "Before and after. Misleading. There are few events to which 'before' or 'after' can be accurately applied. Unless something happens in a split second—a car crash, a dropped glass—there’s always a chain of events that make up a shadowland that stretches between those two units of time."

And so it goes.

I remember clearly the moment The Ex told me he had to go home, to Vancouver Island, after he had all but moved in with me. We were sitting up talking, appropriately, after seeing "The Breakup." I said I couldn't wait to put up a Christmas tree this year. He said he needed to leave before the week was up. And I remember the day of the final "this is over" conversation -- on an blustery October mid-morning, over the phone, sitting at my kitchen table. I had come to realize that we had passed the point of return -- with love, with trust, with sticktuitiveness. Maybe we both had. There just wasn't enough of those things left to make a good go of it any longer.

Over the holidays, Chief of Stuff and our families were out for dinner when an ex-ex boyfriend -- the one who could easily qualify as a first love, and the same one who had given me a lesson in heartbreaking -- waltzed in with his. Later that night, CoS asked me for details of what had happened with him, and like wandering through the grocery store without a list, I could only recall the big things. Milk, eggs, chicken. My lying to him, his cheating on me, and the phone call out of nowhere. But the details, the connecting segments, were all lost.

Days like the other day, too, will eventually fade with time if not written down, not witnessed.

The last conversation I'd had with The Ex had been the night I told him I was engaged. After initial shock wore off, he came around. We joked ("Do you need a photographer?" he asked. "I know a good one." He had just returned from a weekend in Tofino where his girlfriend was shooting a wedding.) We talked like friends -- exactly what I had hoped we could be eventually, since our breakup was devoid of hard feelings (as if on cue from Dr. Phil, we had done all of that work long before agreeing to quit) -- and agreed to maintain touch through the occasional email or phone call.

This, I was happy about. With the ex-ex, there was zero desire to see or talk to him ever again. He had hurt me to the bone, and the mix of anger and loss I felt just being in the same room with him was revolting. Toxic. But with The Ex, it was a different story. We had intertwined our lives for nearly six years. I truly liked him as a person. And betrayal or lying hadn't marked the end of our relationship. We were simply two people who, having fought the good fight, decided that our lives were going in different directions.

I called him around his birthday, and a couple of other times since to check in. I wrote a couple of emails to see if things were okay when I didn't hear back. And eventually, I did. It was a short note that said, basically, I'm glad to hear things are going well with you. I'm happy. I finally found someone I can spend my life with. We're even getting a dog together -- a Vizsla, maybe. Good luck with everything.

It struck me as strange. The last conversation we had is about how nice it was to not lose touch with someone who knew you when and how there was no reason not to keep things friendly. That, followed by, "Good luck, take care of Leonard." Two and two had added up to five. And until I accidentally dialed his number the other day, instead of the one I was trying for, I didn't know why.

We made awkward small talk. But as long as I had him on the phone then, I asked if there was something that had gone wrong between the last time we spoke and now. He told me his girlfriend -- the same one he once cheated on me with so many summers ago -- didn't approve of phone calls or emails from me. That she reads his email, checks his phone. And that's when I knew. This would be the last time.

"I have to live my life," he said. "I owe it to her."

It made me sad for him...and for her. I've been there. Where the sight of a strange phone number or a woman's name you don't recognize has the power to make you instantly ill. A place where you believe that if you just keep monitoring and keep checking in order to keep reassuring yourself, it will all be okay. It will all work out fine in the end.

But more so, it made me sad for me. Not hurt or angry -- but sad, in the purest sense of the word. And not because I want to go back there. I don't. But because, for all practical purposes, it's like he has died. Like I simply dreamed him. We don't live in the same state, or even the same country. He doesn't -- has no reason -- to ever visit here, and vice versa. We won't talk. I won't be on the email list of people to get pictures of their new dog, or in a year or two, new baby. There will be no chance encounters on the street, or in Aisle 5 of the grocery store. And with no friends in common, there won't be any through-the-grapevine updates.

Five-plus years of my life, tied up with a ghost of a memory.

So the next morning, when brushing my teeth next to Chief of Stuff, when he said an ex-girlfriend-turned-friend was coming in for the weekend, I simply asked what the plan was. He wondered if I'd be available for dinner or lunch with the two of them.

I told him he didn't have to bring me along. That I didn't need to be there to babysit. That I trusted him. Because I do. Because I'm not going to be that girl responsible for eliminating people from his life. And because jealousy was an ugly, ugly thing that I yielded to long ago, and I didn't like the girl I was when it was calling the shots in my life.

So I said this: "I don't want you to feel like I have to be there. You're friends. Feel free to hang out without me." I said this not just to say it, but because I really meant it.

He said he wanted me there. Wanted the two of us to get to know one another. Wanted the three of us to become friends. He seemed so sure, so solid.

And just then, spitting toothpaste over the sink in my t-shirt and boxer shorts, still groggy with sleep, I knew that my life to this point -- all of it -- got me here. Taught me hard lessons that I learned well. And somehow, because of all that, I ended up exactly where I was supposed to be.

I love that, with this man, there's no worrying about where his head, or his heart, is. No worrying that there's something he's just not telling me. No need to scan his email or phone messages. I love that with this man, there's no keeping score. No tit-for-tat.

I love that with this man, I can count on him. Without a doubt. Without exception. Without condition. And that all that's come before brought me to this place, to him.

Weekend By the Numbers

2008-01-14T12:13:00.000-08:00

1 new gym membership signed up for, 3 blocks from my office, complete with a free training session, 3 free tans, and a $75 gift certificate to the adjoining spa.
4 miles ran with Chief of Stuff at a faster clip than I think my Garmin let on (anyone know if Garmins can become uncalibrated? There's just NO WAY that we ran 11:30 miles! We were darn near pushing it, after all.)
35 bucking bulls were watched flinging wiry, unsuspecting cowboys hither and yan.
1 Elvis impersonation (hilarious) by round-barreled bullfighter/barrelman.
1 seemingly serious injury to bullrider (broken leg?).
1 great brunch at Marigold with friends we haven't seen in forever.
2 great, potential Oscar-contending movies viewed.
7 miles ran with 1 new blogger friend and 2 VCVs (very cute Vizslas) that went by lickety-split thanks to the great weather, conversation, and company.
1 new pair of running shoes (so new, in fact, there aren't even pictures of said shoes to be found on the net) bought to succeed Root Beer Float Asics of Ironman fame.
1 entry into May's Madison Marathon that came -- free! -- with aforementioned shoes.
1 new triathlon discovered in Madison that I can add to my race schedule for 2008.
$119 spent at Triathlete Heaven, also known as Endurance House, on shoes, socks, quick-dry towel, and Clif Shots -- the first (and, perhaps, lowest amount ever spent on a) visit to EH since just before IM-Moo '07.

Mentioning to Chief of Stuff that I'd like fit in a trip to the pool on Sunday if time allowed (it didn't...alas) post 7-mile-running and Triathlete-Heaven-visiting and realizing that I have, indeed, gotten back in the triathlon saddle? Priceless.

World's Quickest Movie Reviews

2008-01-14T11:11:00.000-08:00

Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street -- Go see it. *

No Country for Old Men -- Go see it immediately.**

*Be prepared to cover eyes often and sometimes, not quickly enough, and to lose all fondness for chicken pot pies, pasties, or the like for quite some time. Also predisposes viewer to nightmares, although well worth it and all.

**Except for all of those "please tie it up with a bow at the end for me" type of movie-goers. (If this is your thing, see Enchanted or Alvin and the Chipmunks, or something else along those lines.) Such a superbly brilliant movie that the few slip-ups contained within go by wholly unnoticed. Still thinking about and processing it, which means it's one of the best movies I've seen in a long, long time. One of those rare films that you can apply loads of literary analysis to and still not exhaust the material. Dark and violent, but mostly not gratuitous. Oh, and whatever you do, puh-lease do NOT bring your two-year old kid to see this. It's only cute for a second when she says, "Oh-oh" after three people are capped and then laughs. (Not sure what logic leads one to say, "Oh, let's just pack the kids up and bring them with us to this movie that is rated 'R' for 'strong graphic violence' and is a mix between serial killer and shoot-em-up western genres," but I actually witnessed the end result. Equal parts disturbing and annoying.)

A Look Back

2008-01-09T19:45:00.000-08:00

Hard to believe this was already/only four months ago today.

I'm not talented at scrapbooking, and as I found out, I'm only slightly more proficient at Windows moviemaker. With that disclaimer out of the way, below is my look back at September 9th, 2007. It's been months in the making. I finally came to the conclusion that it's not going to ever be perfect -- I could edit forever -- so I'm just going to save myself the brain space and nightly tinkering and put it up. Finally.

Hope it brings you all back -- or, for those of you who only heard about this journey through the phone lines or email, I hope it takes you there.

Enjoy. I know I did.

Oh, and sidenote -- I tried to buy the pics for the Dairyland Dare, but no longer could when I started putting this together. Alas, had to use the emailed proofs they sent out after the event, as I was there all by my lonesome. No cheerleaders at that one to take pictures (and not much to take pictures of, quite honestly).

Last Night

2008-01-07T14:13:00.000-08:00

Sundays often depress me, as they do to most people, because they indicate the end of the weekend...and the start of the work week. As such, I've started to dread Sundays of late.

But if I could have a night like last night every Sunday, I'd be one happy little camper.

Witness the yumminess provided by one Chief of Stuff and one American Pie:

Margarita Pizza

Pizza topped with pesto, caramelized onions, and Fontina cheese.

All that, followed by lounging on the couch with two cute Vizslas and watching 300 . Very perfect night, indeed.

Running Naked

2008-01-04T09:04:00.000-08:00

Reasons abound as to why I love going home to the UP. Family? Bimbo's pizza? Beautiful, familiar sights that bring back so many great growing-up memories? Check, check, and check.

But there's one other, too -- I know all of the roads leading from our little parcel on Bass Lake Road and exactly how far I have to travel on each to put the desired number of miles on my little brown Asics. As such, I leave the Garmin behind. No waiting to start my run until it (slowly) locates its satellites. No staring at my wrist more than the scenery around me. No obsessively checking my pace and trying to match my footfall to make the lower left corner of the screen read exactly 9:30, or god-willing, 8:45. No holding my left wrist in front of my face, willing the mileage readout to hit the predetermined half-way point before turning around.

Instead, headed out the door I call to my family, sitting around the kitchen table (as this is 1. where my family chooses to gather, and 2. symbolic of our collective love of and devotion to food), one of the following: "I'm going to run to the greenhouse and back" (3 miles), "I'm going to run Belagomba" (4 or 5 miles, depending on when I choose to turn around), or "I'm going to run the lake" (either 5 or 8 miles, depending). They nod. They know these miles too, as intimately as I do.

The day after Christmas, I announce that a Belagomba run is in order. "Use the treadmill. It's cold out," my mom tells me. This, I know, is an option. The treadmill is a top-notch one. I've used it for everything from interval training for track when I was home on break from college to Ironman training just last year. And I can see that even though a morning sun is out, it's brisk. Flakes hang in the air in our backyard and snow kicked up from the ski hill floats like a fine mist above it in the distance.

"It's fine," I tell her. "I don't mind." I don't take time to explain that I live for winter running. The way my hands warm inside mittens. The way my feet have to try harder to find the pavement. The way the air burns with each breath. I love that I'm out there in the elements, and once I'm bundled up, it doesn't seem quite so cold at all. I love that I can run and run and run and not overheat. I love the muted crunch of snow underfoot. I love that I rarely see anyone else out there with me, unlike in the summer months when roads and bike paths are teeming with joggers.

I accidentally wake Chief of Stuff when I run back upstairs to dig out my hat and mittens. He asks what I'm doing, and then if I want company. I tell him no, to go back to bed. And I mean it. I'm looking forward to the next hour alone -- no offense meant to anyone.

I'm in a contemplative mood and without my Garmin to tell me how fast to go or precisely how far, I just run. For the first time on a run, I put on George Winston's December and let myself get lost in the piano's haunting notes.

It goes this way for the next mile and a half. I decide then that I need words. Kanye West's Through the Wire to be exact -- it has a beat to it, but not too fast, and is inspirational to boot. And then. My trusty pink Ipod, as it's been prone to do lately, simply stops.

I try to call up Kanye once again, and it looks promising. A few more words, and then, once again, nothing. I punch at the little white dial hoping, and then praying, that it will somehow come back on. Despite the low battery sign I get each time. Despite the fact that eventually, even that fails to show up. And then I decide that this is pointless and silly. Praying for one's Ipod to work? Really? As if God has nothing at all better to do than worry about my perfect run being ruined by this little imperfection.

So I start running again, headphones in my ears in case the music somehow comes back on. And, as I'm prone to do, I argue. With myself. I whine to me that this is a big deal. It's my first run in a while, the first outside run in even longer. (I gave myself the freedom to focus on writing this past month, on trying to finish my book, instead of making running a priority. It's mostly worked.) I had pictured this run since arriving in the UP, and a major part of it was the songs I wanted to listen to -- I had a full list of them! So I convince myself to stop, and poke at the Ipod a little more. Still nothing. Two-and-a-half miles to go, with no music. I get mad, and then I start getting cold, and so I decide to just start running.

For the first time in as long as I could remember, I was running naked. No Garmin. No music. Not even a Vizsla or two by my side. Just me. My breathing. My footsteps.

This is the part where I'm supposed to say how liberating it felt. How freeing. And, in part, it did. I thought about my form. I felt my muscles more acutely than I normally would. And at the end of five miles, the post-run hangover that I often get, when Garmin tells me that my average pace is higher than I had hoped, was pleasantly absent.

It was somewhat liberating. It felt good...at times. But more importantly, it was a good experience to have. Reminding me why I was out there. Forcing me to me enjoy the dips and turns in those roads I know so well. Helping me to actually feel my body instead of just willing it to move.

And so, for a while, I've decided that I'm going to keep the Garmin at home. To remain free, for a while, of the need to compete against myself -- against what I could do this past summer, or even last winter, at this time. Because I'm no longer that person. The one who could knock off 8:30 minute-miles for a 5k, bike 30 miles, and then do a quick 5k again. The one who ran mile repeats all last winter. The one who ran a 56-minute 10k the day after the Dairyland Dare and at the end of an oly tri. The one who ran a marathon after a nearly 10 hours of swimming and biking this past September. I will be again. Closer to spring. But I'm not now. And for now, that needs to be okay.

But the Ipod? That's still coming with me. No need to go totally naked.